Back from going to morning hand weight class and why don't I hit the shower first and then be fresh and bright and tidy up the living room and other fine things? No, I slept ten minutes long and didn't fire up the computer before class. And even the computer is not the new boob tube these days but, no, I don't own any of those Star Trek devices (used to be called "Buck Rogers"). Twenty minutes in I hear voices in the court yard and there is just something about the cadence. There's Sara, head of the owner's hammer and paste squad, in the court yard.

I shudder and start in on a rather ripe living room. Probably it concerns another unit's problem, and Poultry Pequeno puts the chain on his door. Sorry, superstition always falls down: Here's a loud knock on the door, but not the shave and haircut cadence of the manager or Sara. One of the crew tells me the inspector wants to see me and I cross myself with superstition born of stubbornness lined with panic on the way down as the manager asks me what's wrong with my car. It's the housing guy and he wants to see registration because the month side of the license plate is faded and the year sticker is a bit frayed from insecure application and/or an attempt to steal it. I have experienced the latter.

But what do I actually do about the "month" in the upper left part of the plate? A call the the Auto Club or any advice is in order.

He's satisfied on his end but he and Sara tell me I'm in line for a ticket. That's it, they're done and even someone's damaged window may even have to wait until after this big weekend. But for me, just like a guy, probably time to slow to a crawl until the next fire and wonder why things go from zero to sixty so quickly on these occasions.